


Of Head Things and Jedi Power

by Ethereal_Red



Series: Tangled Relations [1]
Category: Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-15
Updated: 2015-09-07
Packaged: 2018-03-23 03:23:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3752656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ethereal_Red/pseuds/Ethereal_Red
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Jedi Order welcomes its first Flesh Raider.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The New Recruit

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the Tython quest 'New Recruit'. Specific spoiler warnings will be posted at the beginning of each chapter, but I plan to eventually include all classes and potentially stuff from SoR and Ziost.
> 
> This chapter contains very minor spoilers for the (light side) Jedi Knight's Corellia story.

The most important thing they needed to address was the issue of food.  Although the variety of species within the Jedi Order meant they were accustomed to satisfying a wide range of diets, some of them carnivorous, Flesh Raiders were particularly notorious for their voracious appetites. 

They were slightly more notorious for their love of Force-sensitive flesh but that just meant preparations needed to be perfect. 

Bemused Knights trekked through the wilderness around the temple, making sure there was an abundance of suitably sized wildlife nearby in case food supplies dwindled.  The Master in charge of provisions handed the temple’s nerf-herder an estimate of the average Flesh Raider’s meat consumption; the nerf-herder stared blankly at the numbers before marching off to order more animals from Alderaan.

* * *

In the meantime the Council debated the details of their current curriculum and how they could be applied to a species that had until only recently been known as a bunch of violent, bloodthirsty beasts. 

“It’s clear we cannot allow this… _Initiate_ to mingle with the others,” Master Kaedan grumbled, rubbing his head with a pained expression.  He looked at the elderly man sitting at the end of the table. “If we are to immediately place him in solo lessons perhaps a familiar face would do some good.” 

Master Orgus raised an eyebrow; behind him his Padawan, one of the two responsible for introducing the Order to its newest student, gave the room a sheepish smile. 

“As intriguing as that sounds, one Padawan is quite enough for me,” Orgus said dryly.  “With all our work piling up there’s little time for training as it is.” 

“Kaedan does have a point,” Master Kiwiiks spoke up. “Who was the other who brought this Flesh Raider to Master Strayen’s attention?” 

“I believe that was Master Yuon’s Padawan,” Master Syo glanced at Orgus’s Padawan, who nodded in confirmation. “Perhaps if Yuon trained him…” 

“No,” Master Satele shook her head. “Her methods are highly unconventional, and that is without taking into account her Trandoshan friend. We need a traditional mind and no outside influence to ensure the Initiate does not stray.”

* * *

Master Wettle was a kind, patient teacher with decades of experience in both the field and the classroom.  When the Order relaxed its recruitment policies after the Sacking he proved particularly adept at teaching older students with ingrained thoughts and habits that weren’t always reconcilable with Jedi ways. 

Master Wettle was also a Twi’lek. 

“HEAD THING JEDI.  HAPPY MEET.” 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you as well,” Master Wettle said with the bland smile he defaulted to whenever he wasn’t entirely sure how to act. 

“HEAD THING JEDI. TRAIN POWER. HUNT POWER.” 

“Indeed.  Take a seat, please.”  He waited for the Flesh Raider to sit down before turning around – his student didn’t jump at the Force-sensitive morsel that had just turned its back, perhaps that was a good sign? – and fetching his datapad.  “Before we begin, what do you know about your…er, ‘hunt power’?” 

“HUNT POWER.  TRAIN POWER.  JEDI POWER.” 

Master Wettle winced and rubbed his ears. He definitely needed to convince – or maybe teach – him to lower his voice.

"Let's start from the beginning, shall we?"

* * *

It took some time, but eventually the Temple’s Padawans grew used to seeing the Flesh Raider stuffed into ill-fitting Initiate robes and trying to talk in the library while a chubby Twi’lek Master smacked it upside the head whenever its voice got too loud.

* * *

“A Flesh Raider!  I would’ve never thought this possible,” Master Yuon shook her head in amazement as she watched Master Wettle guide the Flesh Raider through a meditation session in the courtyard.  “You never cease to astound me, Padawan.”

The girl standing beside her ducked her head with a small smile, tattooed green cheeks darkening slightly at the praise. “Thank you, but I was not alone in the decision.  And I simply did what I felt was right.”

“You kept a calm head in a potentially disastrous situation; that alone deserves praise. Should you ever be faced with such decisions in the future, remember what you did here and think of the Jedi this Flesh Raider will become.” 

Her student gave the Flesh Raider a thoughtful look. “I will, Master.” 

* * *

**Some years later...**  

“I know I shouldn’t say this, but I wish we had some Flesh Raiders to throw at the Empire’s forces.” 

That startled a chuckle out of the Hero of Tython, who gave him an amused smile before turning back to study the enemy checkpoint. Meanwhile Bengel Morr spent a few blissful moments entertaining a fantasy of tossing Flesh Raiders at unsuspecting Imperials like a demented game of Huttball.  Then he remembered good, proper Light-side Jedi weren’t supposed to harbor such thoughts. 

He didn’t feel too guilty about it since the very Light-side Jedi kneeling next to him was still smiling. 

“I think the Council agrees,” the Miraluka said, leaning forward and carefully poking his head out of cover to get a clear, unobstructed view.  “Here come our reinforcements.”

Confused, Bengel reached out his senses; there was indeed a group of Jedi quickly approaching the checkpoint, but he was pretty sure they weren’t bringing any of Tython’s natives. 

Though that one Force signature seemed a bit odd... 

A moment later the Jedi ambushed the Imperials, the humming of their lightsabers accompanied by a very familiar-sounding roar. 

“Wait,” Bengel looked out and squinted at the mess of people jumping around between blaster bolts and flailing lightsabers. “Is that…” 

“JEDI HELP.   JEDI HELP.  JEDI FIGHT!  JEDI POWER!”


	2. Robes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers for the Consular story.

“Hurry along, Padawan,” Master Wettle smiled in amusement as a series of grunts and thuds drifted out from his new Padawan’s quarters, interspersed with the occasional growl of “hate robe”.  “Come now, surely it’s not that bad.”

“Hate robe,” Fashk grumbled.  The Flesh Raider had insisted his name was Fashkszdehizs and only reluctantly agreed to the shortened form once it was clear that few people could say it correctly without referring to a pronunciation guide.  “No fur.  Not special.  Ugly.”

After the Flesh Raider’s rambunctious personality had settled down a bit in the first few weeks it quickly became apparent that he did indeed have the potential to become a true Jedi.  True Jedi – and true Padawans for that matter – didn’t walk around in rough fur loincloths, so the temple’s synthweavers had banded together and created a set of robes specially tailored for Fashk.

In theory there should have been no problem with Fashk’s new robes.  The Jedi were host to all manners of species, some with special clothing requirements that necessitated careful attention to detail.  Flesh Raiders were humanoid in shape and lacked such clothing requirements; no, the problem was less with Fashk’s species and more with Fashk simply hating the robe.

“Do not be vain,” Wettle gently admonished, trying to think of an explanation that could easily get through to the Flesh Raider.  “These robes are the symbol of our Order, of our ‘tribe’.  To wear them is to tell the galaxy you are one of us.”

The door slid open and a still bare-chested Fashk poked his head out with a thoughtful expression.  “Ugly robe mark of Jedi tribe?”

“Indeed,” Wettle held out his arms and gestured down at his own robes.  “This is your first step to becoming a true Jedi.  It may not be what you’re used to, but I urge you to have patience.  It will grow easier with time.”

“Ugly robe mark of Jedi tribe,” Fashk said again, face splitting into a wide, sharp-toothed grin.   “Wear pride.”

The Flesh Raider turned back to the clothes strewn across the bed with a renewed determination, shedding his loincloth and reaching for the nearest tunic.  Master Wettle blinked, eyes briefly darting downwards.  Then he yanked them back up, used the Force to close the door, and added a few more items to the list of things he needed to teach his student before Fashk was unleashed on the Republic.

* * *

 

“Green Jedi!  Jedi robe!  Jedi robe!”

“Hm?”  The Barsen’thor of the Jedi Order put down her datapad and turned to face the Flesh Raider standing in the doorway.  “What’s this about robes?”

She decided not to comment on the ‘Green Jedi’.  The Order's Twi'leks were still being called ‘Head Thing Jedi’ (or in Master Wettle’s case Master Head Thing) and the Hero of Tython was stuck with ‘No Eye Jedi’, so all things considered her nickname was quite mundane (even if it had the side effect of lumping her in with the Corellian Green Jedi).

“Green Jedi,” Fashk hissed, pointing at the Mirialan’s clothes.  “Jedi robe.  Where Jedi robe?”

Barsen’thor blinked owlishly and looked down.  She had abandoned her usual long, flowing robes in favor of a light tunic and leggings, a much more practical outfit for the ruined streets of Corellia. 

“My robes are inconvenient for the battlefield,” she explained, gesturing at her clothes.  “This provides a greater ease of movement and lets me masquerade as one of Corellia’s citizens, allowing me greater freedom on the street.”

If the look on Fashk’s face was any indication the Flesh Raider didn’t seem to agree.

“Jedi robe mark of Jedi tribe,” Fashk growled.  “No Jedi robe, no Jedi pride.”

“Err…I understand what you’re saying, but sometimes we must make sacrifices for the greater good,” she unclipped her double-bladed lightsaber and held it out.  “I am a Jedi.  I will never be anything else.  But I am also a shadow who chases after the darkness, and I need every possible advantage in order to save Master Syo.”

Fashk opened his mouth, but hesitated at the name.  “Elder in danger?”

“Yes,” she bit her lip, thinking back to the file Holiday had decrypted.  “I have the means to save him, but it will be difficult.”

The Flesh Raider was silent for a long moment.  Then, “I help.”

“Hm?”

“I help Green Jedi save Elder,” Fashk said in a matter-of-fact tone.  “Save Elder so Green Jedi proud Jedi again.”

“I…thank you, my friend.”


	3. Sister

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This actually became more about Yadira than about Fashk and it's probably the length of the first two chapters combined, but I like how it turned out. Minor spoilers for... the Black Talon flashpoint, I guess.

There were few pastimes Yadira Ban enjoyed more than helping her fellow students.  She often volunteered to oversee Initiate training sessions and always tried to make time for other Padawans if they needed assistance.  Perhaps she wasn’t as talented as the Order’s prodigies but sometimes she liked to think she was doing her own small part to help.

Unfortunately the rapid approach of her final trials meant she had recently spent more time training by herself than helping others, so when Master Wettle asked if she’d like to help with his new student’s training Yadira jumped at the chance.

The whole temple knew of the Force-sensitive Flesh Raider that Master Wettle had taken under his wing.  How could they not after the Council banned all Initiates from leaving their rooms unsupervised and imported several dozen extra meat shipments immediately following the Flesh Raider’s arrival?

The paranoia certainly wasn’t helped when Master Orgus’s Padawan discovered an entire enclave of similar Force-using Flesh Raiders, ones that had already killed at least one Knight, but weeks without any major incident had finally prompted the Council to relax regulations.  Slowly but surely Fashk was becoming a part of Temple life, and like most of her friends Yadira was very curious about her newest peer.

“He can be a little boisterous,” Master Wettle warned her as they approached the clearing where he’d left the Flesh Raider practicing some drills.  “And his personality is a bit…eccentric.  But if you treat him as you would any fellow Padawan there should be no problem.”

“Of course,” Yadira nodded.  There was never any excuse to treat someone as inferior, no matter how different they were – as a Twi’lek she knew this especially well, though she’d never been a slave herself having grown up in the Order.  It was this sense of unity that meant the Jedi would thrive long after the last Sith withered away.

Fashk was smaller than Yadira had imagined, much smaller than the Flesh Raiders that had attacked the Padawan training grounds.  Lacking any hair, horns, or lekku, he wore the traditional Padawan beads on a thin string around his neck.  They glittered in the sunlight, the gold metal clearly visible against his bare chest; his tunic lay draped over a stump a short distance away.

“Fashk,” Wettle said in a patient voice.  “What have I told you about taking off your clothes?”

Fashk looked up and – there was no other way to describe it – pouted.   “Hot.”

“I understand, but this is also a part of your training.  A Jedi will be called to fight in all temperatures; using the Force to keep warm or cool accordingly is an important talent, as clothes suitable to extreme weather may not always be the best for fighting.”

The two stared at each other for a long moment.  Then Fashk turned and went to retrieve his tunic.

“I’d like to introduce you to someone,” Wettle continued once Fashk was fully dressed.  He glanced at Yadira, who stepped forward and bowed.  “This is Yadira Ban, one of the Order’s senior Padawans.  In a few weeks’ time she will undertake her final trials to become a Knight.”

“Head Thing Jedi,” Fashk hissed, clumsily returning Yadira’s bow.  Then he frowned and looked between the two Twi’lek Jedi before amending, “Pink Head Thing.”

“It’s an honor to meet you, Fashk.”

“Yadira will be assisting with your training while I am on my mission,” Master Wettle explained.  “Treat her as your teacher but know that she is your peer.”

“Master Pink Head Thing,” Fashk said agreeably, giving Yadira a deeper bow.

“Please, I am far from a Master,” Yadira quickly waved her hand.  It was unnerving enough to be called Master Jedi by the Republic’s general population; under no circumstances would she accept being addressed as Master by a fellow Padawan.  “Yadira is fine, or ‘Pink Head Thing’ if you prefer that.  I hope we’ll be friends, Fashk.”

“Friend,” Fashk mused, slowly breaking into a sharp-toothed smile.  “Pink Head Thing.  Sister.  Friend.”

 

* * *

“Good morning!” Yadira chirped as she opened the door to Fashk’s room.

Fashk growled and burrowed into his blankets. 

Yadira watched the lump on the bed for a moment.  Then, when it was obvious he wasn’t going to move anytime soon, she marched to the window and threw open the curtains.  Brilliant sunlight flooded the room and Fashk hissed in protest, shrinking deeper into his cocoon.

Yadira took absolutely no delight in dragging the grumbling Flesh Raider out of bed, not at all.  If she happened to be smiling the whole time, well, it was a beautiful day.  She was simply looking forward to it.

 

* * *

 

“Don’t break your stance,” Yadira spun on one foot, easily knocking Fashk’s weapon away with a Force-enhanced kick.  The Flesh Raider stumbled back, wide open, and she carefully placed her own blade at Fashk’s neck, holding it there briefly before stepping back.  “Lightsabers are fickle weapons and can inflict much damage to yourself and allies if not handled correctly.”

Fashk nodded and adjusted his grip, taking a basic Shii-Cho stance as he rushed forward.  Yadira smiled, noting the Flesh Raider’s increased speed and stability, and fell into a defensive Soresu position.  There was no reason why she couldn’t train herself while training Fashk, especially with her trials so close at hand.

 

* * *

“Good meat,” Fashk placed a few blocks of steak on Yadira’s plate.  “Best meat.”

“I’m sure it is,” Yadira said carefully, looking down at her plate.  The Temple cooks had indeed done a very good job cooking Fashk’s steak; the spices smelled wonderful and the meat itself looked juicy and tender.  “I, um, wasn’t aware your species ate rancor.”

“Best prey,” Fashk smiled and took a large bite of his considerably larger pile of meat, an expression of pure bliss on his face.  “Good hunt.  Good honor.  Good eat.”

“If you hunt them, are you saying there are rancors here on Tython?”  The Order had colonized and explored only a small fraction of the planet, lacking the resources and manpower to mount a full-scale expedition.  There were still many mysteries that eluded their attention; hopefully rancors weren’t one of them.

Fashk considered the question for a moment, then shrugged and gave Yadira an expectant look. 

Yadira smiled weakly and picked up her fork.  A Jedi must always be open to new experiences, after all…

 

* * *

When Master Wettle returned from his mission he was pleasantly surprised to find Fashk sitting with Yadira and a few other Padawans, fitting in as seamlessly as any other species.

 

* * *

Several weeks later, on the eve of her trials, Yadira set out to the Forge with nothing but weapon components and the Force.  Crafting her lightsaber was a simple affair, much easier than she’d worried it would be, but thumbing the ignition and watching the green blade light up for the first time would forever be one of her fondest memories.

 

* * *

 

In theory it should have been a simple mission, a simple mission that didn’t involve an Imperial transport turning suicidal and trying to intercept a Republic battle cruiser.  A simple mission certainly wouldn’t involve an Imperial strike team of at least two Sith rampaging through the lower levels of the ship.  But all Jedi were taught to always expect the unexpected and to deal with it as they would any other situation; Yadira did her best to ignore the creeping tendrils of the Dark side as she corralled the soldiers and urged civilian workers towards the escape pods.

“The escape pods aren’t far now,” she turned to the man who was her mission, the Imperial general who’d been seriously wounded while shielding a Republic ensign from falling debris.  “You can make it on your own, General.”

The General frowned, his concern for her clear even through his pained expression.  “But what about you?”

“I will face my destiny.”  She could feel them clearly – two Sith and a strangely muted presence of some sort, perhaps one of the Sith’s foul alchemic creations, on the other side of the door she’d hastily sealed.  The barrier would not hold them long.  “Go now, my friend.”

The door exploded, sending pieces of metal and Republic-uniformed corpses flying through the air.  Yadira turned, glancing sadly at the bodies – she would have to send her condolences to their families, perhaps apologize for not being able to save them – and drew her lightsaber.

The Sith entered first, a pureblood with a haughty expression and a human who looked oddly bored.  Behind them there was a…Dashade, who was watching Yadira hungrily, and a Rutian Twi’lek with a slave collar.  Yadira’s fingers curled tightly around her lightsaber hilt; she’d have to avoid hurting that girl.  Perhaps she could free her after the battle.

“Halt!”

 

* * *

 

 The Jedi call this place Corellia.  Fashkszdehizs doesn’t like it.  The plants are unnatural, stolen from other planets, or confined to small pieces of land surrounded by towering metal.  Prey animals are penned and grow old and fat on artificial food.  There is no sport.  There is no honor.

But the Jedi are called here and Fashkszdehizs is a Jedi.  He will do his duty for his tribe.

He tries to ignore the building materials scattered on the ground as he walks through one of the few areas of nature – No Eye Jedi calls it a ‘park’ – looking for the enemies in black and red.  He doesn’t find them; what he does find is a small female Head Thing (their species is unpronounceable, like most species are) muttering in a voice that freezes him in his tracks.

“Pink Head Thing?”

“Ah!”  The Head Thing - blue, like the deepest water - jumps and Fashkszdehizs hisses in disappointment upon realizing it’s not her.  His sister would not have been so easily scared.

“Something you want?” The Head Thing says, looking at him with narrow eyes.  She glances at his lightsaber and his robes and Fashkszdehizs doesn’t miss the hands twitching towards her weapons.

“Think you were sister,” Fashkszdehizs frowns as he tries to pronounce his sister’s name.  The other Jedi have strange names; he’s always found it hard to call them anything but their species.  “Think Ya…diiii…ra.  Think wrong.”

“Yadira?”  The Head Thing looks at him strangely.  “You thought I was your…sister?  Yadira?”

“Sister Pink Head Thing Jedi,” Fashkszdehizs shakes his head.  “You Blue Head Thing Not-Jedi.  I think wrong.”  He turns to leave.

“Wait!”  Blue Head Thing is fast; she runs in front of him.  Then she looks like she doesn’t know what she wants to do next.  “Uh... I’m Vette.”

Fashkszdehizs looks at her, not understanding.

“Vette.  That’s my name.”  She scratches at her neck; there is a strange collar there, one that Fashkszdehizs has never seen before.  “So what’s yours?”

“Fashkszdehizs.”

“Fa…Fashk…well, it’s nice to meet you, Fashk!”  Vette smiles.  Fashkszdehizs wonders if she intends to say something more, but instead she frowns and squints at the sky.  “I should go before Quinn sends a search party.  Be careful out there, alright?”

She scurries away before Fashkszdehizs can reply.


End file.
